Lost in a dream,
fleeting thoughts of you
take me to a place long ago,
where I’m lost in your eyes,
the way they used to look in to mine,
really seeing me, as you held me.
I become lost in your arms,
remembering the smell of your skin
and the taste of your kiss.
I fall, lost in your love,
never wanting to let go,
not wanting the dream to end.
But I awaken,
your face disappears but the memory lingers,
and now I feel lost again, without you.
Along with aging comes change…..in everything! Some of that change is welcomed, like a new sense of self and not being concerned with what others think. And some is not so well-received, like white hair, bags under the eyes and the digestive system constantly changing the rules for our metabolism on a daily basis.
I never had a care in the world when it came to food. I suffered no allergies. I was not a victim to food sensitivities. I had absolute freedom in my culinary world.
But something has drastically shifted over the last couple of years. I have heard of this phenomenon but never thought I would have become a statistic in this game of “what do we cut out of the daily diet today”. Choosing what to eat has become more like Russian Roulette. One misfire and that bullet of discomfort is going to rocket through my intestines.
I’ve been looking at the Paleo Diet and it seems to cut out all the components that could potentially cause inflammation or general malaise without necessarily cutting out the options for a very tasty selection of meals. I have already become the person who puts beets and turmeric in my breakfast smoothies, so I think I’ve pretty much taken the first step in admitting that I’m not the girl who is able to eat what she wants anymore. And that recipe in the photo looks delicious! Wish me luck…..I’m goin’ in.
If you have read my past blog posts, you’ll know that I have started a wonderful project to help our local food bank. We are making Freezer Crockpot meals so families can feel the satisfaction of having a home-cooked meal on the table, once or twice a week, that is made with REAL food. The ingredients are things like chicken, stewing beef, ground beef, ground turkey, vegetables and potatoes. It has been a love affair of mine since it began last winter and continues to capture my heart.
After a sneaky email from a friend, I was recently interviewed by a local TV news station and the reporter and her fellow newscasters were impressed by the project as well. We had a small segment on the 6:00 news to help promote our cause and gain more coverage to help increase donations. The coverage was also put on the TV stations’ and my Facebook page to help spread the word so we could try to help more people who could use a hand this time of year.
I received some fantastic comments and queries from others who wish to start the same type of project in their community, which is exactly what I was hoping would happen. But amidst the praises and pats on the back, I should have known there lurked a few eyes that glowed eerily in the darkness.
After watching the clip on the news, a woman called the lodge where I work (and the kitchen we use for prepping meals) and was irate that we were not wearing gloves while we prepared these meals. Upon first hearing of this call, I was taken aback…..and then I was angry. I have volunteered countless hours of my time to make life a little better for those who struggle through the winter months, only to have this woman challenge my culinary safety practices.
I have been trained in kitchens since I was in college. Before I went to college I worked in restaurants. And in the 30+ years I have worked in the hospitality industry, I have never encountered a Chef who wears gloves, or makes their staff wear gloves, unless they have been cut and are wearing a bandage. Hospitality staff are trained in food safety. From the temperature of a fridge, to the cooking temperature of meats and the frequent hand-washing to avoid cross-contamination, we are well-versed in following very strict guidelines. Watch a few videos of Gordon Ramsay, Anthony Bourdain, Jamie Oliver or any of the popular cooking-challenge shows and tell me if you see their hands concealed by Latex gloves. This is cooking, not open-heart surgery.
Sufficed to say, my blood pressure has come down and I am moving on. One angry voice in a sea of positivity will not get me down. I can only hope that, one day, this woman will get as much satisfaction from helping others as I do and will give the same strong-arm to anyone who tries to bring her down.
I loathe the word nagging. I much prefer the term ‘getting your point across in a relatively passive-aggressive way’.
When I feel strongly about something, I can be a bit overwhelming in my pursuit and subsequent follow-up. While my intentions are completely honorable, my execution can be somewhat irritating. But at the heart of my bothersome behavior is my desire to see the benefit of my persistence far outweigh the burden of my pestering.
I really do want the best for people. And sometimes I feel like the droning sound of my voice, saying the same thing over and over again, will eventually have its desired effect. But I can hear myself. I can hear the warming of my vocal chords as they prepare to drown the recipient in their ambient sound waves. And although the compulsion is unrelenting, if I am lucky, sometimes I can catch myself before the melodic tone of my incessant chatter reaches maximum annoyance.
On the bad days, I do see my nagging as a challenge – a moment to rise above the urge to deliver unwarranted advice. But on the good days, I see my nagging as a strength – a moment to reflect on the genuine feeling of emotion behind the message I am trying to convey. Regardless of which day it really is, I am compelled to react because the apprehension I feel for a situation is directed at a person who is very close to my heart.
Although the word nagging is derived from a Scandinavian word meaning “to gnaw”, I like to think of my foray into personal harassment as more of a nibble. And if you find yourself on the opposite end of one of my lectures, please know it comes from a place of love and from nowhere else.
I have never been a superstitious person. I’m not afraid to have a black cat cross paths with me. I do use caution around ladders but that is more of a safety issue rather than a superstition. And I certainly don’t believe that I will have 7 years of bad luck if I have the misfortune of breaking a mirror into tiny shards of reflective glass. I will, however, have 7+ horrible minutes of clean up!!
Bad luck seems to be brought on by bad attitudes. If I had woken up this morning in a state of panic because of the calendar date, I’m sure some incident would have befallen me and I would undoubtedly have had people tell me it is a result of the dreaded Friday the 13th. I arose this morning as I always do. I put on my jeans the same one leg at a time. There were no black crows eyeballing me from the top branch of their perch, screeching raptor-like obscenities and warning me to stay indoors.
Did you know that historically there have been fewer car accidents on this day because people exercise so much more caution or don’t drive at all? The irrational fear that this day imposes is an interesting phenomenon. People have such an overwhelming fear of the 13th day of the month falling on a Friday but never really take the time to ask themselves why they have this fear. If you reflect on your childhood, somewhere along your journey, the superstition was unwittingly passed on to you. The moment that seed was planted, it matured into an irrational fear and has embedded its roots into your psyche. I’m a firm believer that we make our own luck. If you think bad things will happen on Friday the 13th then they probably will.
Friday the 13th has never imposed any ugliness on me but I also impress nothing put positive thoughts on it. It is just another day. If Friday the 13th is your ‘monster in the closet’ – lock that closet door and throw away the key. It holds no more power than what you allow it to have.
Are you superstitious or was today just another day…
I am going to be on television. It will be a fleeting interview about a subject I feel very passionate about but I am now starting to sweat the small details. Can I remember not to curse? Will the 10 lbs the camera adds make me look like a beached whale? And what the hell do I have in my closet that will help me not look like a road beacon or a clown?
I am that much of a self-professed nerd that I actually Googled what to wear on a TV interview. It was actually quite helpful so I’m glad for my nerd-ish tendencies. The cursing is another subject, all things considered, but I’m certain I can hold it together.
One of our local news stations is coming up to Muskoka to do a brief segment about the Crockpot Freezer Meals I have been organizing for our local food bank. The news personality coming to do the interview actually did a four-day challenge to eat only the food provided by her local food bank and her struggles were palpable, to say the least. She photographed her meals along the way and the results were far from appetizing. There is only so much you can do with processed, no-name pasta, canned sauce, tuna and canned fruit.
I have always loved cooking. Perhaps I have taken for granted my access to fresh meat and vegetables, but this project has made me truly value my good fortune and my goal is to help create some of the same good fortune for those who struggle through the winter months.
Our town is very seasonal with respect to many things and jobs are at the forefront of the shortages. And some families who may find success in the booming summer months are left to visit the local food banks in the winter months to help supplement their supply of necessary items to make it through the tough times. That, to me, seems egregiously unfair and the reason I began http://www.gofundme.com/dollarsfordinners
So, regardless of whether I look like a street clown or Shamu on a good day, I will face those TV cameras. I will tell my story of Crockpot Freezer meals in hopes that other communities may recognize the possibility of doing the same thing in their small towns.
It takes a village, not only to raise a child but, to empower a community so we can all say we were an active part of making it a success.
I have come to the long-overdue conclusion that January is my least favorite month. Although I think winter can be a stunning portrait of Arctic beauty, January seems to hold some sort of malice for those who live in colder climates. Looking at the picturesque view of the snow clinging to the trees, with the backdrop of a clear blue sky, makes it slightly more bearable but with that beauty in the forefront the beast stealthily lurks in the background.
Skies become overcast and scattered patterns of flakes stipple the grey sky. They fall, lightly at first and in swirling random patterns, hypnotizing those in their path with their ethereal beauty. But the flakes are unending. They churn in the wind, they seem to multiply before they hit the ground and, as the mercury drops, they are frozen to their place. Individual patterns of snow and ice combine to create the tomb of winter.
But I retain a modicum of hope. We are one-quarter of our way through the month. The days are becoming longer and January will soon be followed by the shortest month of the year, leading us into the beginning of the month that births Spring. And with that turning of the season comes the promise of warmer days and easier nights. I look forward to the days that the air doesn’t hurt my face.
I would never have described myself as being overly adventurous in my youth. I wasn’t afraid to try new things in my teens and early twenties but my limits for risky undertakings were much higher then and now my willingness to live on the edge (or a reasonable facsimile of the edge) has completely diminished.
I have not felt the desire for wanderlust that seems to be an affliction for so many of my friends. I am content to live vicariously through the tales of their adventures and to witness their triumphs through the photographic journey that they provide as a backdrop for the narrative of their experience.
I have always been a homebody. I prefer a “staycation” to a long line in an airport terminal with the risk of acquiring some form of contagious bacteria to bring home as a souvenir. I would not go so far as to say that I have become a recluse but the evidence is mounting and the verdict could completely contradict my argument for my defense.
Where once I would brave the terrain and the elements, I now shy away from driving in bad weather. I don’t like driving at night anymore because my eyesight feels somewhat compromised in the dark and I make the excuse that it is for the safety of the other drivers on the road. And I shrink into my couch every time gale force winds undulate through the bare branches and howl outside of my window.
But I have come to realize that my plight is not one of fear. It is one of freedom. I have allowed myself to be just that, myself. I am not going to jump behind the wheel of my car because someone thinks I am paranoid and I want to prove them wrong. I make no excuses. I ask for no sympathy. I simply live the way I want to live. I am quite content to sit in my living room with my computer in my lap and blog about the fact that I am comfortable becoming THIS person.
I am not a fan of making resolutions for the new year. I have never followed the time-honored tradition of making a list of things that, once they are scripted, seem somewhat ridiculous and marginally unattainable. I have known enough disappointment in my life to know that setting myself up for a possible failure, in a manuscript penned only by me, is not an option.
But this year something changed. A small cog in the wheel of my thought process became stuck for a short period of time and had me reflecting on the past year and the role that social media played in perpetuating a plethora of misguided and angry posts. No topic was sacred and no member of any social media outlet came out unscathed.
Friendships have been lost or irrevocably changed. Lines have been drawn in the sand and sides have been taken. The majority of posts I ignored and would not engage in a battle, political or otherwise, without the benefit of being able to see my opponent. It is easy to send a cascade of beliefs out into the cyber world without having to actually face your adversary. There is a level of comfort enjoyed when you are typing your emotional mitigation without the burden of having to face a rebuttal. You can simply turn off your device and ignore the reply.
So my resolution this year is simple and it came as no surprise. I have resolved to not post any negative statements this year. This does not mean I will not have strong opinions on many topics. It simply means I will hold my pessimistic views about any issues until a fair and just way of sharing those sentiments presents itself in a personal and neutral setting.
Social media makes voicing thoughts far too easy without taking that extra moment to calm down before we type. Just thinking about how many eyes may read what I write has made me want to be much more culpable for the content of my posts. Fingers crossed I can hold my tongue if the need arises!
polysyllabic profundities 